The driest leaf

Some days I am the driest leaf -
brown and brittle, blown away,
dropped by my maker, and turned to dust -
longing for courage to reconnect,
to find my way back up.
But there is something to be done first.

Who knew that souls-in-training
could make so much noise?
When breastbone grinds with heart and
heart clashes with head, then
rattles out through fingertips.
There are so many ways to die.

Each day, a resurrection, a
chance to green up, show up, pay up,
chop wood, carry water with
axes sharp as thoughts,
buckets big as lake beds.
There are so many ways to die!

But to the trees, they're all the same.
 
  ~MG 10.30.13